Night Blooming
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: Near can't resist a complicated puzzle. And Mello, by far, is the most complicated puzzle in the House... One-shot. Near/Mello


_Okay, so this isn't either of the things I said I'd be working on. This is more like leftovers: a one-shot that's to serve as a sort of palette-cleansing sorbet (for myself, at least). And I've been longing to try a different POV, and to play around with character and metaphor a bit (as opposed to plot)._ _And, okay-I might just be wanting to avoid working on something longer, because frankly, my confidence has been in the crapper here lately. So let's start off slow._

_Oh...and do enjoy the sorbet._

_This piece is rated M just to be safe. The language is actually not at all graphic, but still..._

_I do not own Death Note or its characters (as per usual)._

Night-Blooming

Night time in the House.

Nothing to hear but the soft, kitten whisper of raindrops against the window. Nothing to hear but the delicate bird-tap of a random branch, blown carelessly against the glass. It's eerie in the House at night, without all the sounds of the other kids to give it life, to give it meaning. Bell-like laughter, incessant chatter, the pounding of soft-soled feet up and down the hallways. The light, the movement. The brightness and cool, wispy breath. At night everything comes to a complete stop. And Silence stands guard.

In a dormer room high up on the top floor of the House, a boy was awake. He sat in the middle of his bed, with his feet tucked under him, hemmed in by several books that lay open in a semi-circle around him. His eyes ticked from page to page, from book to book, back and forth like the dark, discomfiting eyes of a kit-kat clock. He paused to read the entry of an overly large book to the right of him, a hefty volume inscribed with gold letters which read: _ Encyclopaedia Botanica_. The entry was for a flower with vivid, white spiky petals, petals that looked as soft and as sharp as angels' wings:

Night-blooming Cereus

(Cereus Greggii)

_One of the strangest plants of the desert, the Night blooming Cereus is of the Cactus family that resembles nothing more than a dead bush most of the year._

_It is rarely seen in the wild because of its inconspicuousness._

_But for one midsummer's night each year, its exquisitely scented flower opens as night falls, then closes forever with the first rays of the morning sun._

The boy sighed and closed the book with a heavy _thunk! _He then turned his attention to another open book on his left, a threadbare copy of Plato's _Republic_. His greedy eyes ticked across a couple of paragraphs, then this book too was closed with a resounding _thud! _and the boy pushed it off the side of the bed, leaving it to land amidst the black-and-white diamond patterned wreckage of an abandoned chess game from earlier that day. The plastic pieces scattered, rolled across the board. The boy paid no mind; the game had been too easy anyway.

_"Where are you going Near? The game's not over."_

_"Yes, it is."_

_"No, it's not. How can you say that?"_

_"Oh, but it is. Eleven more moves and your king is mine."_

The boy unconsciously twirled a lock of his pale, curly hair, remembering the game. Such disappointment there, at both the game's brevity and the lack of skill in his opponent. The game had been no real challenge for him, thus it had ended all too quickly. And his opponent couldn't even see how and why it was over...

The boy turned and casually picked up a large Rubik's cube from his bedside table, a 20 X 20 X 20 one which he had solved earlier that day. He looked at it for a few seconds, then allowed the cube to slip from his small, pale fingers-allowed it to fall onto the growing pile of toys on his bedroom floor. Now that its elusive algorithm was broken, its mystery permanently solved, he no longer cared for the thing. Such was the way Near treated all his puzzles.

And now his mind was bored.

Near reached forward and pulled the last open book to him, another large volume with a stark black and gold art deco cover. His eyes skirted across a single paragraph:

_He heard and saw things that gave him immunity from astonishment for the rest of his life. He made his greatest effort and learned to keep silent, to keep the place others described as his place, to accept ineptitude as his master-and to wait. No one had ever heard him speak of what he felt_. _He felt many emotions toward his fellow men, but respect was not one of them..._

_Thunk!_

This book, too, was tossed into the growing pile of frustration by the bed. Near reflected for a moment on those final words, on their potential meaning. He was aware of the frank unease he caused the other students. He knew that his lack of emotion-or rather, perceived lack of emotion-was something alien to them, something so entirely _other,_ that they either dismissed him outright, thought him emotionally stunted, or worse-

_They feared him._

He knew it was a natural human response: _the fear of the unknown_. It was such a trite, dismal little bromide, and so viciously and utterly true. He spoke little and interacted with no one. His test scores were off the charts-perfect, untouchable. _Untouchable. _Ah, if they only knew, those others, how it really was! If they only knew how ridiculously_ easy _this all was for him. How little an effort he put into it. If they only knew! And, if one boy in particular knew-then that boy would probably fall to his knees, cursing and weeping at the unfairness of it all, or...

...more likely he would try to murder him in his sleep!

And so Near kept his silence, and bided his time. Bided his time, alone in the pale solitude of his room, until he could eventually claim his place. _L's place_. Bided his time, in both loneliness and frustration...

..._loneliness and frustration..._

...until this little sojourn in hell was finally over, and he could stop pretending. Could stop pretending to care about these studies that were far too easy for him. Could stop sitting, on hard uncomfortable chairs, in cloistered, uninteresting rooms with other uninteresting students, day after monotonous day. Students whom he was told were his equals, but were not...

_... they were not!..._

...but he was forced to endure it all anyway, so he could obtain that end goal. To be number one. To be the next L.

It was ridiculously easy, maintaining the position of number one. And at the same time, mind-numbingly, achingly difficult. He had status; he had intellect. But, conversely, there was no understanding, no closeness, no connection. Not to anyone. _Anyone! _Human understanding eluded him. Emotion was viewed as a fatal flaw. There were, in his world, only things, objects: endless arrays of puzzles to be solved, a never-ending succession of games to be beaten. And so he beat all the games. And he solved all the puzzles. Time after time. There wasn't a puzzle or mystery yet, that he couldn't solve. None. Save for, perhaps one...

_Creak!_

Near glanced up at the dark wooden beams which cross-hatched his ceiling. Beams which conducted sound with the precision (at least to him) of telephone wires. The creeking, vibrating beams alerted him to every hitch and groan made on the the top floor. And he knew that particular creak. And he knew its owner. For there was only one other student who would be up long past the witching hour, haunting the House's hallowed hallways.

_Mello._

Wammy's number two was no doubt returning from some over-done, hedonistic night of carousing. Or of criminal behavior. Or perhaps both. Near really didn't know what Mello did when he snuck out of the House at night, could only hazard guesses...

...but it made for an interesting puzzle.

The moment the lights went out, the moment when everything in the House stilled and there was only Silence left to patrol the hallways, then Mello would make his move. Near knew this, because the third floorboard to the left of Mello's bedroom door made a distinctive squeal, like that of a poked, protesting pig, whenever he trod upon it. A squeal that carried itself along the extensive network of his room's dormer beams, right down to the boy's own sensitive ears.

(Not that he was ever listening for it.)

And then again, later-some time around four or five a.m.-when the sky was just beginning to lighten itself into the shade of an old bruise, he would hear the creaking sounds again, signaling Mello's return. Sometimes there would be a muffled _thud!_, or the accompanying sound of a door being slammed too hard. And Near imagined, by this late hour, that Mello was either too tired, too drunk, or simply too apathetic to care about the noise. Sometimes, Near would open his door into a hairline crack, and peer out into the hallway at the other student. What he always saw was this: Mello, dragging himself around like some battled-scarred alley cat, dressed in too-tight leather that would give Roger conniptions if he saw it, staggering listlessly toward his own room. Then Near would see him again, a mere three hours later, seated at the breakfast table in a simple black jumper and sweats, an open book by his plate, and the fire of raw, dogged determination alight in his too-tired eyes. Sometimes he would go to confession, to the ancient and beautiful Winchester cathedral. Sometimes he would skip breakfast altogether and go straight to the library. But no matter how long he had stayed out the night before, Mello was always up and back at his studies at the crack of dawn. He never slacked. His stamina, his endurance, was impressive. The boy was such a contradiction on some many levels, that Near couldn't understand it-could not understand _him_.

Which made Mello the most interesting puzzle in the House.

Near waited to hear the rogue creak of that third floorboard, the careless opening and slamming of a bedroom door. But those sounds never came. What he heard, instead, were heavy, shuffling footsteps. Leaden, tired footsteps. And they came to a stop just outside his own bedroom door.

"Near, are you awake?"

Near froze in surprise at that. No doubt the faint light, seeping like liquid gold beneath his own door, had given him away.

"Yes..."

"Can I come in?"

Near immediately grew suspicious at this request. Mello had never shown the other boy anything but cold, quiet contempt-if not open, outright seething hostility-in the past. It was the hallmark of all their interactions, as few and as far in between as they were. All one-sided, of course. Near never revealed any of his own feelings. Mello, on the other hand, was a volatile beaker of emotion, ready to boil over or just explode at any given moment. And what Near gathered from Mello's unadulterated, unchecked displays of emotion was this: the blond absolutely loathed him. _Hated him._ It was obvious to any and all who had the misfortune to be in a room with the two of them for more than a few seconds. The two of them were like hydrogen and oxygen-two elements that were fine on their own, but deadly, explosive when combined. And so like the charged, protracting ends of a magnet, they actively avoided one another. Stayed away from one another.

Which made Mello's request to enter his room so surprising. _And also made this a far too intriguing puzzle for Near to resist._

"Come in..."

The door creaked open, and Mello stepped in. Stepped in and seemed to immediately draw all the light from the room, like a breathing, walking black hole, a vortex cloaked in black. He was wearing a dark vinyl rain coat, the sleek surface of which glinted like an oil spill under the golden cast from Near's bedside lamp. He had the hood up, and his face, within its black oval, was pale, tubercular even. Not its usual healthy shade of gold. Near watched as Mello reached up a gloved hand to push the hood back in a tired gesture, revealing gold locks that had been soaked through to a darker shade of brass. He then collapsed in a heap at the foot of Near's bed, like a drowned leather-clad druid, or a fallen angel. His head lolled back and he looked tired, pained even.

The reason for this was revealed in his next statement.

"I wrecked my bike. Completely totaled it." Mello stared up blankly at Near's ceiling.

The room had taken on the mood of a confession box.

Near said nothing, merely waited for Mello to continue. A few seconds ticked by. Near watched as a growing water stain began to slowly spread across his comforter, outlining Mello's dark, reclining form. Then he said:

"It was a gorgeous bike, too. A Ducati 848..."

"Why tell me this?"

Mello turned his head, looked at Near directly for the first time. "That spill I took kind of hurt." The admission seemed forced, and Near watched the other's face with a growing fascination. "And then I had to walk-in the rain, mind you-all the way from St. Giles Hill-"

"-that's a long way." Near interjected. And again, he was forced to marvel at Mello's endurance, his drive.

Mello nodded, and there was that pained look again. An emerging suspicion was just beginning to bob up to the surface of Near's consciousness. "Mello...are you alright?"

The other boy shook his head. Then, without a word, he turned on his side, away from Near, and threw aside his rain coat, and pulled up his shirt-a tight black number emblazoned with the slogan _Anarchy in the U.K._-and then...

Near hissed in air. "Mello, you need to go to the infirmary," he said, staring at the bloody mess that was the other boy's side.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Mello was turned away from him, and there was a deadness to his tone that suggested that he didn't actually need to hear the other's confirmation.

"You should go to-"

"-_no!_ Then Roger will find out, and he'll go ballistic. He'll keep me locked up in here until I'm twenty."

"Mello, you can't just walk around with a wound like that. It's going to get infected. What if you need stitches?" Near's mind, of course, dutifully followed the path of logic. He ticked through all the possible scenarios, the outcomes, in his head. Why couldn't Mello see that he needed immediate medical attention? Where was his sense of self-preservation? Why did he have to always engage in such irrational behavior? It was _demented_...

"Fix it for me?"

Near almost laughed at this. Almost. So that's why he was here! He wanted him to play nurse, just so he could avoid Roger finding out about his little night-time adventure. The lack of logic in all this was almost laughable.

But Near still didn't laugh.

Near said nothing. He simply, and wordlessly, slipped from the side of the bed-carefully avoiding all the books and toys and games that were piled on the floor-and went into his bathroom to get the first aid kit. He plucked up a shiny metal box stamped with a large red cross, and turned and went back to his bedroom. He walked across the threshold in his white-socked feet, where he came to sudden, and abrupt, stop-

During the time Near was in the bathroom, Mello had decided to dispense with the top half of his clothing, and his raincoat and shirt had been thrown, like careless pieces of shrapnel, onto the wayward pile of objects scattered across the floor by the bed. He had arranged himself back into his former position, back on his side, facing the other direction. Which Near was grateful for. Because if he could see the look on his face right now-

Near simply stopped and stared. He felt his usually pale, anemic face heat up, felt it turn pink, suffused with a sudden-and heretofore, unknown-emotion. _A sudden, unconscious stab of desire. _He felt his mouth go completely dry, and his emotionless eyes roamed over Mello's unusually still, beautiful form. Roamed over the tempting golden curve of his bare back, down to those inexcusably tight leather pants of his, to linger over all the rounded, tight-muscled beauty that they contained. For once in his life, Near was completely dumbstruck. Emotions that were buried, held in check, or simply ignored, all came bubbling to the surface. It was like he'd been hit in the head with a tsunami-hit and pulled under. And now he was drowning. _Drowning_...

Puberty was a bitch.

Mother Nature, it seemed, had quite the sense of humor. She had to, in order to play such a cruel and twisted joke on him. Of all the students in the House, of all the people in the world, for Near to have developed a sudden attraction to... Why-it was completely illogical! It didn't make sense! Mello hated him-_hated _him! Would, in fact, axe murder him just for the chance to obtain his rank! And he wasn't shy about letting those feelings be known. Oh, no-Mello never, ever held back on that account. He always had his cards out on display, always held an open hand. _ Always_.

Unlike Near.

"Did you die in there or something?"

Those words snapped Near out of his reverie, and he forced his feet forward. Forced himself back over to the bed. Forced himself to draw close to Mello, to that tempting form of his that was like an Ingres painting come to life. Near's hands were shaking so badly that he almost fumbled the kit, almost dropped it. Mello's head turned at the noise, revealing the exquisitely cruel, feline features of his profile. "What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing," answered Near. And he was surprised to hear his own words come out as flat and as sure as ever. "Don't turn around," he commanded.

Mello merely shrugged, and faced forward again. Near convinced himself that as long as the blond didn't look at him, then everything would be alright. He could still function normally. He could actually lay his hands on that bare flesh, and still remain in control.

At least, this is what he told himself.

Near flipped open the kit and took out a large, square cloth and a bottle of antiseptic. He poured a healthy dose of the liquid over the cotton material, watched it darken the fibers, then applied it to Mello's side, and-

"-Ow, Dammit! Fuck me gently with a chainsaw! That burns!"

"-ssshhhh! Not so loud! And do you_ have_ to talk that way?"

"Fuck you!"

Near ignored that response and continued cleaning the wound. He watched the rusty red color transfer itself from the boy's side, onto the washcloth. He tried very hard to concentrate. Every now and then, though, his gaze would wander. Down Mello's shiny, black-clad flank, across his bare shoulders, over the damp hair stuck to the back of his neck. He realized he had never been this close to Mello before-had never seen so much of him, up close, and in such excruciatingly intimate detail-in all of his life. Without a doubt, he was gorgeous. A veritable leather-wearing, flaxen-haired god. Or devil. And Near couldn't stop staring at him. Now who was the demented one?

"Are you done yet?"

"Sit up. I'm going to bandage it."

Mello slid into a sitting position, the movement liquid smooth. Near clamped a hand on his shoulder, kept him facing in the opposite direction. _Don't look at me! _ "Now, hold this patch over your side and let me run the tape around you."

"Yes, nurse." The words dripped with the honey of sarcasm.

The velcro sound of the tape being unwound from its spool was unaccountably loud in the church-like silence of the room. Rain conitnued to tap its gentle background accompaniment against the window panes. The sky outside was already turning into an icy, morning glory blue. The night was almost over.

"There," said Near, reaching out a pale hand to smooth the last of the bindings into place. He allowed his hand to linger there, longer than necessary. He was surprised by the strange thoughts that were forming inside his head. He thought again of algorithms-of twists and cranks, of cause and effect. And then a certain deviousness began to overshadow his thoughts. And he found himself calculating, plotting even, but not in his usual way. Not in a _good_ way. Not in a logical, unemotional way.

And it didn't help that Mello had plopped back down into a reclining position-facing away from him-with a heavy sigh.

One didn't need a tight black leather outfit in order to be a predator, Near mused. And manipulation could, in fact, come creeping in on white-stockinged, soft-soled feet. And a spider's web could be made from the cross-hatchings of a room's dark, wooden beams-its interior littered with games and toys, not the bodies of flies. And the spider himself could appear to be nothing more than an emotionless, uncaring child, both innocent and oblique.

Near slid-as soft and as insubstantial as a specter-into a reclining, mirroring position behind Mello. He lifted his left hand, and allowed his pale, tremulous fingers to skirt along the edges of the cotton bandage, his touch light, like the faint brush of an angel's wings...

"What are you doing?" Again, the turn of that exquisite profile.

"Don't move," Near whispered. He allowed his fingertips to wander, to idly trace over the contour of the cotton ribbing, until he encountered actual flesh. Then he waited patiently for a response. Waited for some sort of reaction to his invasive touch. Waited for a reaction that didn't come.

_(Twist)_

Beneath his hand, Mello had gone completely, preternaturally still. He seemed to be waiting. Emboldened by this reaction-or lack there of-Near continued to let his fingers map the silken expanse of the other boy's exposed flesh, pressing harder, trailing lower-

(_Crank)_

Mello made some sort of noise, either of protest or encouragement. Near couldn't tell. His fingers drew careful, swirling circles over the flat of Mello's stomach, hypnotic, vaguely electrifying. He thought again of the theory of algorithms. Then he pressed closer to Mello, allowed their bodies to touch-just barely-and he felt an intense heat coming in waves off that damp, exposed body. The gleam of the lamp's amber glow coated Mello's skin in a warm, molten lava, glazed him into a golden idol. Near felt himself caught up in the grips of a fever, infected by the tempting heat of that warm, perfect body. Felt himself compelled, driven...

He allowed his hand to slide lower-

(_Twist)_

Mello let out a pained hiss of air. Or at least to Near, in his inexperience, it sounded pained. Mello's head titled back, and Near found himself engulfed in the scent of the boy's damp, gold locks. The smell of chocolate and leather and asphalt and rain. But mostly chocolate and rain. Near inhaled deeply and pressed closer, fusing the two of them. Like bonded molecules. His hand continued to work diligently at the flesh he couldn't see. Like an explorer, gone blind, fumbling through uncharted territory...

"Hold tighter." The words were little more than a breathy whisper. Near's eyes widened a little behind Mello's head, but he followed his instructions. Mello had ceased to remain still and was now moving, rocking rhythmically under the other boy's grasp. Near was surprised at the sounds coming out of his mouth, sounds that were growing increasingly louder.

Near snaked his free arm around and promptly clamped a hand over the other boy's mouth.

(_Crank)_

They were locked together, but for once, it wasn't in hate. Or was it? Near kept his right hand planted firmly over Mello's mouth, over the vibrating melody of his ardorous, plaintive whimpers. His left hand worked with increasing skill between his legs, stroking faster, pulling harder. His hold on the other boy had turned into a death grip, as Near began to unconsciously move against Mello. He gasped, pressed forward, spurned on by the lightning strike of his own insidious desire. He moved, seeking that bit of friction, straining toward that spark that would set him off, set him free. Mello thrashed against him, and he felt a gloved hand reach back to tap frantically against his side. Near removed his hand from his mouth.

"Ah, I'm gonna-"

That's as far as Mello got before he released himself into Near's hand, his back arching against the other boy with animal abandon. Near felt himself clawing at the body pressed against his own, felt himself begin to spiral. Felt himself being sucked into a whirlpool of fantanstical, obliterating sensation, as his own orgasm swelled, crested, and violently-and rapturously-pulled him under.

_He felt himself drowning..._

The room, gone gray with the pale oleander light of an encroaching dawn, was spinning. Near's head was spinning. Everything was spinning. Near fell back, flat against the comforter, panting. Emotions and thoughts-heretofore unexperienced-swirled around the inside of his brain, tickled his psyche like a trail of marching ants. His ears were buzzing. He felt, rather than heard, the bed move as Mello crawled off the side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy cleaning himself with one of the cloths from the first aid kit. When he was done, he threw the cloth onto the pile by the bed.

"Who knew you were such a dirty little bastard?" And Near's eyes flicked over to where Mello stood by the bed. He watched as the other boy plucked his black T-shirt from the floor, watched him tug it over his head. All that beautiful skin now hidden from his view...

He couldn't believe it had been his just a few moments ago.

"Don't bitch like some virgin taken advantage of at prom," Near's voice came out tired, prickly even. He was surprised by his own tone.

A cackle of laughter cut across the room. "That's funny. I like that." Mello scooped his rainslicker from the floor. "Still, the way this night ended. It was all rather...unexpected."

"Then maybe you should alter your expectations."

Mello stood in Near's doorway, smirking, obviously preparing to leave. "I'll have to remember that...next time."

The door opened and swung shut with a loud _thunk!_ Near glanced over to stare at the space by the door formerly occupied by Mello. A faint crackle of electricity seemed to remain, seemed to linger. _Next time, _he had said_. _Near had a sneaking suspicion that there wouldn't be a next time. That with the dawning of a new day they would both just fall back into their old patterns, their old dance, and continue interacting as they always did. Which was to say, not at all. Mello would go back to hating Near, and Near would continue to show no emotion, just like always. And they would remain apart.

_Just like always..._

But that was okay. In fact, it was more than okay. Because Near loved puzzles, and there would always be a new one to solve. And tonight, he'd discovered and mastered a new algorithm. He had broken through another mystery. He had solved yet another puzzle. And, as he stared down at the pile of books, at the chess set and the rubik's cube, and at the soiled cloth that Mello had dumped on top of it all, he felt finished, accomplished, complete.

He felt ready to move on to a new puzzle...

End/Fin.

_Author's notes: The entry for night-blooming cereus is real, but the title of the book I put it in made up. The next quoted paragraph is from Ayn Rand's "Fountainhead."_ _This piece is unedited, so if anyone sees anything that's completely out of sorts (or if that cheeky document manager has just spontaneously decided to dump my text again), then please let me know._ _Thank you._


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